Fickle Reality
by PandaRaver
Summary: John never knew that there was another version of London, one so strange that it made him question his sanity. He never knew about magic and monsters and teacups that produced tea whenever he wanted it. And he had never, in all his life, thought he would meet someone so wonderfully strange like Sherlock Holmes. (Currently on hiatus. Must revisit old tribes)
1. The Lone Soldier

**Notes: If you've read Neil Gaiman's "Neverwhere" well, that's the basis of the setting of this story. There are two Londons. John lives in a place inflicted with war and hunger while Sherlock's London is magical though they don't really refer to it as such there. This literally AU though there are still cases to be solved.**

**I'm warning you that this one's going to a bit long.**

* * *

**Chapter One: The Lone Soldier  
**

The sky had always been red.

There were days when too much smoke and ash prevented them from clearly seeing anything that was not ten feet away from them. There were days when it rained and the sky would hide behind dark clouds that spewed water that was more harmful than helpful. And there were days when the sky, red as blood, could only be seen through large black birds soaring in the sky, the red peering through the gaps and reminding them that it would always be there. It was like a warning of what was to come.

And what came were the bombs.

They did not fall one by one. They fell in twos and threes, crashing into buildings before they exploded after five seconds. These five second intervals were the worst. It was always better to have a quick death, to have it done with before you knew what was coming. To see these giants ticking away and having yourself rooted to the spot, staring Death in the face, was a cruel thing.

But nowadays, what wasn't?

For John Watson, the concept of good deaths and bad deaths did not exist. Death was merely what it was. It was simply to cease being who you were. He hadn't believed this at all when he was a child. He had wanted to die in a hospital bed, aged yet fulfilled the way his grandfather had gone. This wish had gradually faded in the coming years. Now his only hope was that if he did die right now, they would find a piece of him large enough to send to his sister. It would give Harry some peace of mind.

The fifth bomb fell a few feet away from them.

They fell back when the ground burst, and froze when they saw what had caused the crater. The bomb was large, as tall as five men standing on top of each other, and black as sin. They could hear it ticking away, informing them of the time. Not enough to run away but it baited you, wanted you to try. No one did. In his earlier years, John had seen men go the same way. He had screamed at them to run and wouldn't stop until the explosions drowned him out. The third time it happened, he realized that there was absolutely no way to run. The ticking of the bomb froze you to the spot, like Death himself was holding you down.

Five seconds passed and nothing happened.

"It's a dud!" Mike screamed. His hand found John's wrists, pulling him out of his trance.

They heard the ticking stop then the gears inside whirring again. After twenty seconds, the bomb would begin its countdown once more.

He was lucky guy.

"Run!" It was him screaming now, their commander once more. He turned to the frightened faces, white beneath the soot and grime that coated their bodies. There were too many boys in his platoon. Dimmock had been an idiot in letting them leave camp so early.

"Come on, move!"

Then they were off, tearing down the street as quickly as possible. John could hear some of his men sobbing in relief. There would be another night spent with the wife and kids. For the youths, it would be a story shared by the fire, told with just the right voice to incite adoration from the others. Another night to live before they were thrown back here again, fighting in a war that never seemed to end.

Thirteen seconds.

"In here!" It was a hole in the ground, created by an earlier bomb, and just large enough to accommodate the fifteen of them. He let them in first before he let himself drop. A crack and a burst of pain. John gritted his teeth and stumbled, his legs giving out under him. He had landed on his ankle. In the darkness he squeezed his boot slightly, just enough to prove him right. A sprain, he guessed. Nothing bad.

Eight seconds.

There was no god. There were many of them but John hadn't believed in a single one for a long time. Nevertheless, John prayed, not for himself but for Harry. He could not imagine her living without him. She needed assistance, someone to stop her from drinking herself to death. And the only person who could do that was John.

Seven seconds.

They were shaking, his men. What if the hole was not deep enough? What if the bomb was stronger than they had anticipated? This had happened before. You could never tell when it came to these monsters.

Six seconds.

A soldier was whispering under his breath. Young voice, probably a new recruitment, probably no more than sixteen.

Five seconds.

He could smell cold sweat, and all of a sudden something wet and warm seeped into the leg of his trousers, followed by the sharp scent of urine. The soldier next to him apologized, choked, then sobbed all over again.

Four seconds.

"John?" Mike. Only Mike called him John instead of Captain.

Three seconds.

"I'm scared, John."

Two seconds.

_So am I._

One second.

John closed his eyes. Please, he thought.

Zero.

* * *

The sky blazed and there was the bang of a gunshot.

His dreams hadn't always been filled with blood and gore, but since he joined the army that was all his mind could play for him. He would dream of fellow soldiers dying in his hands just as he was trying to save them. He dreamed of the bombs falling and killing every person he had ever known and loved. He dreamed of his mother dancing in the kitchen, cradling Harry in her arms and smiling at him through red. They were always the same, these dreams, but he never failed to wake up screaming until his throat bled.

The dream this time had changed slightly. He still dreamed of the bombs and the red sky, but now there was a light, brighter than any he had ever seen. And all of a sudden there was a tingling in his arm, beginning in his fingertips. It was nothing at first but as the sensation climbed up, it turned into pain. It was a bone-deep pain, a gut-wrenching pain. It was as if the nerves in his arm had twisted and were tightening around themselves. It was a pain that made him feel as if he couldn't breathe, as if it had transferred to his lungs and transformed into a fist squeezing his heart.

It was the pain that broke the dream.

His head was pounding madly when he opened his eyes. It felt as if had been split into two with a sledgehammer then mashed together in a desperate attempt to put it back to its original state. He screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth as sleep faded and gave way to the raw pain. Every cell in his body seemed to be on fire. The core of it was in his shoulder, his left, and madly he thought, no, not that one. Anything but that one. That was his good hand, his gun hand. Without it, he was nothing.

It was a minute late but still, he opened his mouth and screamed.

A door slammed open and he heard the sound of heeled shoes clicking on the floor. Warm hands pressed against his skin, holding him down. John tried to fight it but he was too weak, too useless.

He registered the sting of the needle as it sank in the crook of his elbow. "Rest," someone said softly.

The dreams did not come back but they were there, waiting. He could feel them fighting, trying to surface the drugs that kept them in place. It was like drowning and when John woke up again, he could not decide if being drugged was better or worse.

* * *

Sometime later, he heard voices. He could hear them but not see them, not associate them to the bodies where they resided. He lay in bed in a vegetative state, his mind never working perfectly.

* * *

"Unconscious but alive"

"Shoulder, though…Thankfully, the bullet went right through."

"Idiots, those people in the army. Recruiting boys! Of course they'd panic. They're children, they shouldn't be out there fighting."

"What do you suggest they do? Sit inside and wait for death?"

"Well, at least they won't go killing people on our side."

"He's not dead_._"

"Not yet."

* * *

"Oh gods! He's not…please, don't let him die!"

"It's alright! He'll wake. A bit of rubble fell on him but it's nothing."

"His shoulder! Oh, John…"

"We'll do our best to fix it."

"_Please_."

* * *

"He's worthless to us now."

"What are you saying?! This is John we're talking about! He's a damn good commander and you know it."

"Look at his injury! Do you think he'll still be able to hold a gun and put you back together? He'll end up dead after an hour if he goes back."

"He saved our lives."

"Then you repay him in other ways, starting with the boy."

"He…he just. It's not right. John wouldn't want it."

"There's a price to be paid, Bill. It's the first way."

* * *

"Who was it?"

He was conscious now, sitting in bed, propped up by the pillows. The pain was still there but it was more bearable with the drugs still in his system, there but not overpowering him. Occasionally, a part of him would ache horribly but he would just grit his teeth and wait for it to settle down.

Mike sat in the chair at his side. There were stitches in his forehead and chin, but other than these, he was fine. His face was still grimy but that was expected. When out of the training camps, cleanliness was a myth. There was only survival.

Bill stood at the foot of his bed. He and Mike exchanged a look and Mike nodded. Bill wasn't part of the group John commanded. The floor was Mike's. Smiling sadly, Bill bid him goodbye before he drew back the curtains and stepped outside. John caught a glimpse of several other fallen soldiers before the curtains fell down and separated him once more from the rest of the world.

Mike sighed sadly. Mike who had a family, a wife he doted on and two children to whom John was godfather. Of course Mike would be affected by it, more so than John. John only had Harry and a sad, demented woman who he had once called mother.

"It was Meyers," Mike said. His words caught at the end and John knew that Mike had been there, had seen the spectacle with his very own eyes.

"He was only fifteen, John. Only fifteen."

Edwin Meyers. He had been with them for only a month. John remembered a gangly boy with a round face full of freckles. Edwin, the same boy who had followed John around with wonder in his eyes, doing all of John's orders without a moment's hesitation. He was a reflection of what John had been like when he first joined. Young and absolutely stupid.

"We were holding our guns," Mike breathed. "We all were. When the bomb went off, most of us dropped it. But Meyers…Boy panicked. Didn't know he'd pulled the trigger until it was too late."

John could just see it now. The bomb going off at the same time as the gun, the bullet piercing his flesh and young Meyers looking at him fearfully. Too young, John thought. It was a mistake. They should never have allowed any of them to join. They were only children. John remembered himself at fifteen, an awkward boy who went around chasing girls in his spare time, hoping to get a little more than a kiss. That should have been Meyers. It should have been him and it should be Palfrey, Irving, and all the young boys who'd joined in hopes of sending more money to their families.

A foolish notion. There wasn't much to send.

"What did they do to him?" It was the question he'd dreaded to ask and it was the question Mike had been dreading to answer. But he had to know.

"You know how it is, John. They…they told him he'd made a big mistake, told him he was too weak and he shouldn't have joined in the first place. He pleaded with them, told them he had to so he could support his family. But they…they don't listen, John! Shot him six times then they burned the body, sent the ashes to his mother. And they apologized! They told his mother they were sorry it had be that way but it was protocol. No time to afford mistakes.

"I couldn't help but think of Mattie when they brought him down." Mike was trembling. "I couldn't help but think that if I—no, _when_—I die, John, my son will join, too. And he might make the same mistake as Meyers and gods…It's just. It's all fucked up!"

John stared at him, at this man who was torn between right and wrong. No Mike, he thought, that's not good. There was no wrong in the army. There were only orders and you had to follow them. They had enlisted, knowing that there was already a noose tied around their necks, so they shouldn't be…shouldn't be…

Shouldn't be so human.

There were no good deaths and bad deaths. He repeated that in his head but it no longer reassured him. He thought of that young soldier. One stupid mistake, a stupid mistake that even soldiers like him could have committed. And it cost him his life.

A part of him was secretly glad about not coming back.

* * *

Harry didn't see the cons of the situation. When he was finally discharged from the hospital and sent back to London, she threw her arms around his neck and held on. "You idiot!" she told him fondly and John wrinkled his nose at the reek of alcohol.

She had never wanted him to join the army. He was seventeen when he put his name down the list and eighteen when they finally came to their house, informing John that he would begin his new life as a soldier. He remembered the ride to the port, Harry clinging to him all the way, telling him quietly to please not go because they needed him there. For a moment, he had considered going back. But then Harry had pressed against him and he felt how skinny she was, how malnourished. Back then, London was even worse than it was now. Food was a rarity and the crime rates had gone sky high, making people afraid to leave their homes. Harry was only sixteen then, but she had considered prostitution to John's horror. He had seen those women waiting outside pubs in their garish outfits, their weariness palpable even through layers of makeup. "No," he said, "I'll find a way." A week after Harry's proposal, the fliers came. The army was always looking for new recruitments. People were always dying.

"But what about Mom?" Harry had sobbed when he told her his plans. "I don't know how to take care of her, John!"

In the end, they had taken her to the asylum, something both John and Harry had insisted they never do when their mother began to show signs of madness. It had always been there when they were children, but as the years flew, sanity left her until she could no longer take care of her own children. They were only minors when it happened and by law, their mother should have been taken away and they should have been sent to the orphanage where death was a better option. So at thirteen, it was already John who kept the family alive. He had done petty crimes such as stealing, mugging, anything to put bread on the table. He never let Harry do any of it but that didn't stop her from creating trouble. She had always been rebellious and when John returned home for the first time after being sent to camp, John learned that she had turned to alcohol.

He was sent back before he could anything about it.

But now he was here and he could fix some of their problems. He had, of course, realized on the way back that there were more things to worry about at home than in the army. Injured soldiers, ill commanders…They had never bothered John greatly. He would worry at a patient for a while and there was always that slight ache when a soldier under his command passed away, but most of the time he had been detached. The only people in the army that he had ever feared for were Bill and Mike, but as they were soldiers, John had readily accepted the fact that one day, they would too, would die. No one was exempt from death. Yet when it came to Harry and his mother, all rational thoughts left John's mind. They were all he had.

Harry was squeezing him too tightly for his liking. John could sense the fear in her embrace, could almost hear the questions running through her mind. Was he really going to stay? Was he going to make things better? John just hugged her back to avoid thinking of answers.

"It's not much but it's home," she said when she released him. They stood in front of the dilapidated building that Harry had told him about during his army days. The last time John had visited was eleven years ago, just before he began his medical training. Through Harry's letters John had learned that she had moved several times in his absence. Never out of London, though, and never far away from the asylum where their mother was confined. To hear Harry talk about it, it was like heaven. It was far from that. The building was three stories high but so narrow and crooked that John was surprised it didn't collapse in on itself. The brickwork had been destroyed by acid rain, making it look as if the walls were melting. A few windows were boarded while those that weren't were either cracked or coated with so much grime they could hardly be considered windows. Still, it was his new home and compared to their camps in the army, this place was a dreamland.

Harry chatted happily as they carried his few possessions to his room. It was located in the ground floor which John was quite pleased about. His shoulder, despite the pain and the tremors it gave his left hand, was the least of his worries. Even though he had only sprained his ankle, he had gotten a limp that was so bad he required a cane just so he could walk. Psychosomatic, the medics had explained, and the government had, along with money and a medal, supplied him with a physiotherapist who had been paid to torture him for one year.

Harry left him to his own devices for a while. John sat on the bed (lumpy mattress, moldy sheets but still better than his army cot) and began to unpack. He didn't own much. There were his uniform, his undershirts, medals and badges received through hard work, letters sent by Harry, letters forwarded to him by Harry from the asylum updating them about their mother, a fossil of a strange insect that Bill had gotten from one of the many deserts they'd gone to, and the photographs. He had a number of them, most of which were taken by Mike who had been sent the camera by a relative. There were pictures of John when he first arrived, an awkward eighteen-year-old smiling at the camera. There were pictures of them drinking by the fire and a few of John practicing surgery on animal carcasses. John noticed that even though he was smiling in the camera, there was that trace of worry in his eyes, as if he were thinking that this moment of happiness could be taken away any time. And he _had_ been thinking that when the camera flashed in his face. The only picture of John where he saw he was truly happy was a slightly blurred one and of poor quality. They had been very drunk then, celebrating the birthday of one of the soldiers. The camera was too close and John's face nearly filled up the whole square. A great deal of the background was visible at the upper left of the photograph as John had moved (actually, Bill had pushed him) to the right so that part of his face wasn't visible.

There was a knock on the door. John quickly shoved the rest of his military items under the bed, including the photographs. Save for that last one. John had no idea why but he wanted to hold on to it. He slipped it in the pocket of his coat then asked Harry to come in.

"You alright in there?" she asked. She had changed into a dark grey uniform that John assumed was her work outfit. John was not exactly sure what Harry did for a living, but as she worked under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Turner, their first landlady and the one person who knew them better than anyone else, John wasn't worried about her getting into too much trouble. She still drank, of course, but John could tell she was making the effort not to overdo it for his sake.

"I have to go work. I'll be back at eight."

"That's fine. I really should visit Mom."

"Oh. You still know your way?"

'Of course."

Twelve years away from London hadn't altered John's memory of it one bit. He knew the streets, the alleyways, even the underground tunnels where he was forced to hide during an air raid. There were lesser attacks here in London but the bombs were still as deadly. Traces of the three-week old attack could be seen through the state of the streets. There were holes here and there and the scent of sulfur never truly left a place that had experienced an ambush.

St. Bart's was only a few blocks away from their flat but John's leg was practically screaming by the time he reached the tall iron gates. The building hadn't changed at all and John was pleased to note that compared to the others beside it, St. Bart's seemed to have been untouched by any bomb.

The receptionist was unknown to him but his strong resemblance to Harry helped her guess where he wanted to go. He was told to go up the circular staircase and down a narrow and dimly lit hallway. Doors lined at either side of him, the small windows at the center giving him a glimpse of the people it contained. A scream pierced the air, distant yet unnerving all the same. John swallowed thickly.

His mother was sitting on the bed when he came in. She looked frailer than the last time he had seen her and her waist-long hair, once golden in color, had turned grey. John approached her cautiously, wondering if she still recognized him. Her dark green eyes were glazed meaning she had been recently drugged. They regarded him silently, two forests in a map of scars. John remembered that day all too well. Harry had found her in the kitchen, laughing madly while weaving a knife in the air, her cheeks slashed and dripping red. John never did know why she had done it and Harry had been in too much shock to tell him what had really happened.

"John," she said and John sighed, relieved. Amazing how she still knew him. Perhaps this was what Harry referred to as a 'good day'. Good days meant their mother stopped acting like a wild animal. Good days where when she reverted back to what she had been like before insanity claimed her. They were a rarity.

"You have his eyes, John."

He had heard this many times before but she never elaborated. 'He' was his father, obviously, but apart from knowing that he had the same eye color as him, the man remained a mystery. He did not know either if he had been present when his mother was pregnant with Harry and he was just a year old.

"It's snowing," she whispered and she was gone again. It hadn't snowed in London for a long time.

He visited her daily, sometimes with Harry but mostly on his own. She seemed to talk more when he was present, something Harry pointed out, her voice failing to mask her annoyance. John did not know why it was like this when it was Harry who had been seeing her during his absence. His mother treated him like a child and John never bothered to tell her that he was already thirty-years-old and he was far from the wiry roof-climbing, pickpocketing boy that she had known.

The tenth day John went to the asylum, he was alone. Harry had work and after the fourth visit, when their mother had recognized only him, John guessed that she no longer wanted to do it when he was around. His muscles ached as he climbed up the steep steps. He had just had a session with his physiotherapist the day before and it was agony. Still, it was working for his shoulder. It did nothing to fix his limp, though.

John peered through the window first to see what his mother was doing. She was sitting in the chair where he sat every time he came to see her, her back to him. She was moving her hands dramatically, as if telling a story to an invisible man.

No, not invisible.

There was someone inside with her. For a fraction of a second, John thought it was one of the orderlies, but the man standing before his mother wasn't dressed in the crisp white uniform. John caught a glimpse of a long black coat and dark hair before he burst inside, hoping to startle the man.

"John?" His mother had turned to look over her shoulder to give him a smile. Of the man there was no sight.

* * *

The first person to spot the airship was not a person at all.

Physically, he looked human—two legs, two arms, one head, a nose, and a mouth. What made him look a little more extraordinary than most were his eyes. They were oddly shaped, sharp at the corners and a little far apart. Their color was unearthly. If one was asked to associate a specific color with the man's eyes one would not say blue or green or brown. Instead, that person would describe to you the heart of glaciers and dirty snow, cool mist and frigid water. Cold was the word and they were, both in color and expression.

The man was sitting on the broad windowsill, hands shoved deep inside the pockets of his trousers. The blue scarf around his neck hung loosely and his coat, a wonderfully dramatic piece of clothing, was unbuttoned partially unbutton. He looked for all the world, the very epitome of relaxation. In truth, he was quite bored.

The coming of the airship did little to change that. A normal person would have run at the sight of it and hidden underground, but as the man was not really human, he needn't bother. He was a ghost in this place. He could touch and see and smell but nothing could harm him. This was London, but it was not his London.

He swung his feet to-and-fro, the back of his shoes hitting the wall with a _thump. _He wondered briefly whether the man and the woman inside the room above him could hear. The woman, undoubtedly. She was quite mad and he had long ago learned that the mentally disturbed in Common London could see him and talk to him. They would attempt to touch him, of course, but they never could and that suited him just fine. He did not like to be touched.

The man, though. He was not insane. He had known that when he saw him peering through the glass. His eyes had the gleam of a hardened man and a split second after the man came in, just as he was disappearing, he saw enough. A soldier, he guessed, a former one. The aluminum cane he held in his hand was enough to tell him that and he still _smelled _of war. Acrid smoke, desserts, and blood, faint but still detectable. The combination, mingled with the scent of the Commons, was absolutely intoxicating. He wondered if the man's emotions tasted just as good as his scent.

The airship was beginning to sink lower, its silver belly now cutting through the heavy clouds that coated the sky.

Imbeciles, he thought, spotting a group of youths walking down the street, laughing loudly. Couldn't they see that there was impending danger right above their heads? No. Commons were rather stupid which was why so many of them died in less than a week.

All of a sudden, there was a whistling in his coat pocket. He heard the conversation below stop. The woman carried on but it was the man's silence that intrigued him. He hears, he thought, fascinated. How strange.

The whistling became more insistent and the man sighed as he fished inside his pocket, never leaving his eyes on the airship that was beginning to make its appearance more clear. As soon as his fingers touched the scrap of paper, the whistling stopped. The once blank piece of parchment now contained words written with dark blue ink. Lestrade. That was the color he preferred.

_Come back at once. Something's popped up at the edge of Baskerville and several of my men have already been injured. _

The words stayed for a few seconds, waiting for a reply, then disappeared when it was made clear there would be none. There was a new case to take but he already knew that it was frightfully easy. First, he would watch the bombs.

Whistling again. The man scowled then crammed the paper deep inside his pocket. The sound was muted slightly but that didn't stop it from getting the attention of the two Commons. He jerked his feet up and drew his legs to his chest when the window below him slid open. Right, he had forgotten to lock it again.

He watched the back of the man's head curiously. Blond hair, bleached by the sun, scent of soap and coffee. He leaned forward a little, his feet threatening to slide off. He could feel the man's emotions buzzing inside him, fear and wonder jumping inside. It _should_ taste bitter and sour, but he couldn't, for some reason, transform the man's feelings to tastes.

Stranger and stranger yet.

He leaned forward some more, a mistake as his feet did slide off the edge. He was able to draw them back again before he could fall but the damage was done. The man had turned and was now looking up at him, shock in his eyes.

He held the man's gaze for a moment before he looked up. The bottom of the airship was now opening and even though it was still far away, he caught the glint of the black murderer. It would drop right in front of the asylum.

"Oi!" the man cried, interrupting his thoughts. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing up there?"

Lestrade will be mad, he thought, ignoring the man's words. But then again, he didn't really care what anyone else thought.

He reached out and grabbed him just as the bomb fell.

* * *

**Notes (Oh no notes again no no no no more notes!): Sherlock feeds on emotions just to make it clearer. Explanations will be provided in the next chapters. :)  
**


	2. Stranger and Stranger

**Disclaimer: Not mine, blah, blah, Sherlock belongs to BBC and Moffat, yadda yadda yadda**

**Notes: A glimpse of Sherlock's version of London and some mention of what happened between Sherlock and Moriarty which is to be further elaborated in a future chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter Two: Stranger and Stranger  
**

A part of him had always known that the metallic birds were dangerous. They left too many sounds, bangs and crashes that made Harry cry and left him trembling in the cradle of his mother's arms. The noise was enough to shake the walls and bits of plaster would fall from the ceiling and coat them with white dust. There had been days when the explosions almost seemed as if they would never end. They would sit in the darkness of the bunker, wrapped in moldy sheets while they ate their meager food supplies. His mother had been lost, even then, jumping or letting out a small shriek every time a particularly strong blast made the world shake.

"What is it?" Harry asked him, clutching his sleeve when more plaster fell. She was six and he was seven but you would think that the age gap was bigger from the way John handled himself. He didn't really know when he had stopped being a kid. He felt as if he had been an adult since his birth.

"It's a party," he had replied, taking her hand in his. He knew the truth, of course. He spent more time outside than Harry and he had seen the aftermath. He and the other neighborhood kids had once watched authorities pull the charred bodies out of the wreckage. Sometimes the body could not even be identified as a body. John had looked at the remains with an odd fascination. If they could still be identified they would be buried or thrown in a mass grave, depending on their social status. And if not they would be burned again until all that remained was ash.

John thought the whole ideal darkly amusing.

That was before the war, though. That was before John had to deal with a few charred bodies himself. It wasn't so funny when he was the one running away from those black monsters, stopping abruptly whenever he saw someone get caught by the disaster.

Too much blood. Too much violence.

Memories invaded his mind even when he was awake. His deportation didn't stop his mindset that danger was just lurking around the corner. His hands itched for a gun and every now and then he would look over his shoulder, searching for an enemy. This was all fine if it weren't for the crucial mistake he'd made. He seldom looked up.

The falling bomb was not that last thing that happened in his dream. The red of the sky had given way to blue, ice blue, the kind that was associated with hypothermic cold. And then a smile, a flash of white teeth, and all of a sudden the dream was broken and John opened his eyes. He didn't scream, though.

The dream was fading quickly and by the time he was fully conscious, John could only remember a blur of colors. It was strange. He knew, of course, that most people tended to forget their dreams upon waking, but he had never been part of that group., His dreams were always vivid and they would stay with him for the rest of the day unless something strange happened and forced it to the back of his mind. Also, he had not woken once in the middle of the night. He felt fully rested for the first time in years.

The second thing his mind registered was his surroundings. He was in a bed but it was not the cold narrow one where he slept in his shared flat with Harry. This one was soft and large enough to accommodate five fully-grown men. It smelled, strangely, of fresh grass. It was a scent he hadn't smelled in a long time, and for a moment, he buried his nose in the sheets, hoping it would never go away.

Something soft brushed against his face and he looked up, his eyes widening when he saw the room.

It was a circular room, large but seemingly not because of all the things inside. There were tall, crooked shelves filled with books in different sizes. There were chests in the middle of the room, sitting on a thick rug with intricate designs. Plants hung from the ceiling, waxy leaves drooping low enough to touch the floor. But what amazed him the most were the pieces of paper fluttering about. They flitted like small birds, never alighting. John could see words on them, flashing different colors of ink: hound, liberty, in, rache.

He felt something tickle his neck. One of the scraps of paper had lodged itself in his collar. John pulled it off and saw that it hadn't been torn off. It was a small page from a notebook. John opened it carefully and saw a message.

Follow Logos –SH

Logos. Greek, he remembered. He had seen that word in one of the old medical books he'd been forced to read during training. It meant 'thought'. But what did that mean? And who was SH?

And where the hell was he?

The note was fighting in his hand. John relaxed his grip and watched as it flew away and fell in what he guessed was a wastebasket.

Logos. John pursed his lips. Where was he? What was this place? He looked up and watched the papers fly by, wondering if there would be another note explaining his whereabouts and how he ended up here.

He remembered nothing at all of last night but something big had definitely happened. Had he gotten drunk and stumbled in someone's house by mistake? That was something he knew he would have done years ago but not now. John sighed. He had to get back home. Harry needed him. She'd worry if he didn't get back before lunch.

John scooted over the side of the bed. It was higher than he'd anticipated; his feet were dangling an inch over the floor. John searched for his cane but it wasn't there. He must have left it then, though that wouldn't explain how he was able to walk. Worry about that later, he thought as he focused himself on finding a replacement. It was too cluttered to pick just one object.

He would just have to risk it.

John rested his good foot on the floor first, holding onto the headboard with his left hand. He stood on his toes then dropped down, bracing himself for the tremors that would run up his leg. None came.

Oh, he thought. That was strange. Much stranger than this odd place. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, testing it. It worked perfectly.

The knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Instinct made him grab his right forearm. There was a reason why he always wore jumpers. Deftly hidden in the sleeve of the material was a thin blade, small enough to use without being seen. It was something he had not learned from the army. He had learned it when he was a boy and running around, stealing things for his mother and sister. One of his companions had taught him this right after he nearly got beaten up by a storeowner. Everywhere is a battlefield, Johnny, the kid had said. You always have to be ready.

Silently, he crossed the room, skillfully avoiding papers and drooping leaves. The knocking became even louder and when John finally reached it, he heard a strange thump after each one, as if the person behind it was dribbling a ball. John clenched his teeth, and slowly, carefully, turned the knob. The door swung open.

"Fuck!" He leaped back in fright, knife and composure forgotten as he stared, open-mouthed, at the thing. It was a human skull and to John's horror, it was jumping up and down. Its teeth chattered when it landed on the floor with a soft thump. 'This is wrong," John muttered under his breath, paralyzed to the spot. The skull was still jumping and it took John a few moments to realize that it was beckoning him to come out.

He shook his head. Maybe he had fallen hard and hit his head. Or maybe he was already dead and this was someone's bizarre idea of his ideal heaven. John pinched himself to see if he could wake up again. It hurt.

Follow Logos. The words repeated themselves in his mind. This was Logos, that was clear. John frowned at the skull. It was now rolling on the floor and looking at John with its holes for eyes. It almost seemed to be pleading.

Maybe he'd gone mad.

John felt for the knife again, the sharp edge of it reassuring him. He had a knife and he felt rested. His leg and shoulder were miraculously not bothering him. If worse came to worst he could always defend himself.

The skull seemed pleased by his decision to step out. It was rolling down the narrow hallway, stopping every time John paused to look at something. He saw mirrors with no reflections of anything. He passed by a painting of a pirate ship that was actually moving. The water sloshed out of the frame and seeped into the carpeting. John rested a hand on it and drew back his fingers which smelled faintly of the sea.

The hallways ended and a set of stairs appeared. John gripped the railing tightly and followed Logos down. The skull simply dropped down the steps. John wondered briefly if it was hurting itself. He dismissed the thought. Skulls couldn't hurt themselves. Skulls shouldn't even be moving in the first place!

Logos clicked at him before rolling down another hallway. John entered it and found what appeared to be a living room.

Like the rest of the house, it wasn't normal. There were even more bookshelves and every surface was piled high with glass vials and smoking beakers filled with bright liquids. The whole place smelled like sweet smoke which reminded John of the cannabis some of the injured men in the army were permitted to take. Only beneath this smell was the stench of rot, faint but still detectable to John's nose. Perhaps this was Logos' rotting body.

Click, click, the skull went and John found himself being ushered to a gray chair in front of a fireplace. As soon as he sat down, a fire lit itself. The sweet smell faded slightly and the temperature rose until John was feeling warm and contented.

_Stop it, Watson. You aren't here to have a relaxing vacation._

_But _where _was he?_

He sighed in frustration and rubbed the back of his neck. He couldn't remember anything! It was as if someone had taken a chunk of memory out of his brain. No, that wasn't right. It was there. Hidden but there. He closed his eyes and tried to think but nothing came.

He sank back in the chair. It really was a comfortable chair. Nice and soft but not enough that he would feel like he was drowning. Absent-mindedly, he traced patterns on the arm. Nice, but filthy. It looked as someone had coated it with charcoal—

Oh.

John lifted his hands to his face. His skin was blackened. Not burned. He was covered in soot. He looked at his clothes which were in the same state as his hands. He was absolutely filthy. That was wrong. London wasn't free from grime and the bathwater turned grey after you'd been out for a day but this was ridiculous. It looked as if he'd been hit by a bomb.

Oh.

John's eyes widened. He remembered.

* * *

The woman on the floor could barely be recognized as a person. Her skin had turned dry and leathery, stretching over bones which suddenly seemed too sharp without the muscles and fat between them. Her eyes were wide open, her stare glassy. A smile played on her lips but it wasn't beatific. It was a ghastly grin that showed all of her teeth, rotting and smelling strongly of decay. The structure of her facial bones told him that she had been aesthetically appealing before it found her. Now the only thing that was truly lovely about her was her hair, long and golden and fanned beneath her head to make it look like a halo.

He knelt down. The smell was horrid, even for him, but worse scents had invaded his nostrils before. Deduce, he told himself as he scanned the body for anything that would lead them to something. The pearls around her neck and the flashy wedding ring on her finger suggested wealth but the clothes didn't match. Her dress was cheap and old. She was to be married, then, to a rich young man who doted on her. He looked at her legs. He could see scars there, paler than the greyish-blue hue of her skin. Abused, grew up in an orphanage, maybe. He could read the story of her life but it wasn't what he was searching for. He needed the details that would lead him to what had ended it.

'Nightwalker?" Lestrade asked, interrupting his thought process, much to his annoyance.

Nightwalker. Giant black creatures that hunted during the night, blending in the shadows. Weakness: light.

Lestrade, you idiot.

"Obviously not. The attack's recent. You can tell by the _smell_ of her."

'I can only smell rot."

"If it had happened in the night, there wouldn't even be a body to look at." He stood up, making Lestrade jump back lest he knock him over. "This one's new."

As soon as the words left his mouth, an uneasy murmur ran through the members of Scotland Yard. Their anxiety was palpable in the air and he could already taste it, sharp and tangy, the perfect meal. Lestrade saw his face and gave him a warning glance. Not here, he was saying. Not where we actually need to feel this way.

"How would you know?" The speaker was a new member. He peered over Donovan's shoulder and stared at him warily. _Recently graduated, eager to impress, only child, attentive parents. _The young man looked at Lestrade when he didn't answer.

"He's one of them," Anderson spat as he passed by. "One hell of a freak."

He'd been called worse.

"No acting like immature brats during a crime scene!" Lestrade shouted, his voice loud enough to drown out his retaliation. The DI sighed. The shadows beneath his eyes were darker and judging from the way his hands kept shaking he'd had too much caffeine to make up for the lack of sleep. Sherlock wondered briefly how it felt to have your body give up. His last experience of exhaustion was when he was seven and he had deleted the memory of sleep some time later.

"New curfew until we find out what's prowling London at the moment. Most aren't stupid enough to break the rules during times like these but some are stubborn so we're going to have to double our number of lookouts." He turned to his people who muttered amongst themselves before they finally nodded. Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "Are you coming?"

"Moriarty's not going to make another one. I've handled enough cases to know his routines. This one's just a test-run. Tomorrow night there will be another attack."

"And what of the prototype?" Lestrade looked at the woman's corpse which was now being whisked away to the morgue. "There's only one monster running about right now but that doesn't mean it won't kill again."

"Make all the defenses you know. One of them's bound to work. Moriarty's originality has been dwindling for the past six weeks. He's being quite dull, really."

Anger. Bitter and spicy, one of the emotions he disliked ingesting. It was always a sudden rush, never heeding his permission for it to be consumed. He glared at Lestrade who was mirroring his expression. "This isn't a game, Sherlock," he hissed, eyes narrowed. His fists were clenched. Lestrade really was tired. He was usually more composed than this. "People can really die, you know, and you're just…you're being totally—"

"Heartless?"

Embarrassment. Such a weird flavor. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. It always made him lose his appetite. Lestrade's reaction hung in the air, ready to be consumed but Sherlock didn't take it. He wasn't too hungry, anyway.

"I didn't mean…I wasn't…," Lestrade stammered. The tips of his ears had gone pink and Sherlock could smell the sweat forming on his palms.

"You should know that twenty-one years of not possessing it has given me enough time to not feel any form of discomfort when one of you imbeciles reliably informs me that I don't have one? No, not reliable as you only point out the obvious. There are actually pros to what you dub as my predicament. I can cross planes for one thing and my body is only transport. Sentimentality does not obscure my thoughts. I do not regret giving my heart away to Moriarty."

"He took it."

Sherlock shook his head. "I traded it for something better. Anyway, it's gone. Moriarty probably ate it as soon as he got his hands on it."

Lestrade sighed. "I don't think it was worth it."

"That's because you never think."

He turned away before Lestrade's anger could reach him again.

Of course it was worth it. He had only been seven when he did the trade but even then, he already knew that if hadn't gone through with it, he would have killed himself to avoid the sheer boredom of his surroundings. What he did regret, however, was how he'd panicked just as Moriarty was pulling his heart out. In an instant, Sherlock's heart was sitting in Moriarty's palm, a small part of it still remaining inside his body. And Moriarty had opened his eyes for the first time in his life, the blank expression on his face fading away until he was smiling back at Sherlock malevolently.

He never did tell anyone that Moriarty happened because of him.

But even though the trade had gone wrong, the important bit for him was still there. He was able to surpass Mycroft's skill and enter into the one place that no man had ever gone through since the Separation: Common London.

And he had been able to bring back not just something, but someone from that place. He had done the unthinkable.

Mycroft would kill him.

Sherlock checked his watch as he entered the cab that immediately stopped before him. It was already ten in the morning, meaning he'd left the Common in his home for sixteen hours. He was most likely awake now. He knew that Commons slept longer than their kind (or rather, Lestrade's kind) but he was probably awake by now. And hungry. What did they eat, anyway? He had spent nearly two days roaming Common London, entering people's homes without being noticed, but they didn't seem to eat very much. Or perhaps that was because there wasn't much to eat.

221 was quiet (Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister) but Sherlock already knew that the stranger was up. He could smell him. Loss, panic, fear, worry. Bitter tastes that scorched his throat when consumed with little control. The man was a tumult of emotions and for a moment, Sherlock was glad that he couldn't eat any of the man's feelings. Commons' reactions had a stronger taste than those of their kind which was why Sherlock preferred to feed in Common London than here.

The door swung open at his touch. The thumping at his feet told him Logos was greeting him but Sherlock barely paid attention to his pet. His eyes were on the man who was sitting in one of the chairs at the fireplace. He had jumped up at the sound of the door opening and was now looking at him wildly, a knife in his hands.

Dull.

"Don't waste your time," he said as he took off his coat. Notes flew out of the pockets and made their way to his room, the one the man had slept in. He'd covered the sheets with grime, no doubt. Not that it mattered. Sherlock himself never even used that bed. "You cannot hurt me. I am quicker than you, undoubtedly much more intelligent, and I can predict all your actions. For instance, you will obediently slide that knife back up your sleeve, sit down once more, and ask me who I am and where you are."

As he predicted, the man did everything he said he would. "Sherlock Holmes," he answered, pushing Logos aside as he took a seat in the chair opposite the man. "And you are in London. Our London. I took you from Common London when you showed signs that you could see and interact with me, something that has never happened before.

"Common London is your London," he continued when the man did not say anything. "Bombs, war, hunger. Not much different from our version of London when it comes to danger. Our war is different though. You fight for territories and power. We fight to free ourselves from the monster called Moriarty. Your enemies are guns and airships that drop bombs that cause explosions. Our main enemy is Moriarty but as he does not show his face we fight his creations, lesser monsters who kill people for his enjoyment."

He stopped and looked at the man who seemed to be struggling with words. Sherlock remembered the woman he had fed from last night. Under all that soot, he looked every bit his mother's son. Young, fair enough to look upon, very expressive eyes. There was something about them that almost seemed familiar but Sherlock pushed that thought away. He'd never met anyone—or anything for that matter—with dark blue eyes.

"My mother…" the man finally said. He looked at Sherlock, his face lost. "The bomb fell in the asylum, didn't it?"

"It did. You're the only one who survived. And you wouldn't have if I hadn't taken you."

"I'm dreaming," the man muttered. He was now shaking his head. "Or I'm dead. There's no way this is happening. There's a fucking skull jumping around for one thing and there are paper planes that are really acting like paper planes! This is crazy!"

Anger, denial, desperation. Sherlock stared at the man. _You know she's dead. You didn't have to see it all. You know how those bombs work._

_You know this is all real._

All of a sudden, a low grumbling broke the silence that followed the man's outburst.

_Hunger. _

"Follow Logos, he'll lead you to the bathroom. We will continue this conversation once you've eaten. It will be difficult for you to understand if you pass out due to starvation." The man opened his mouth to say something else but he cut him off with a look. "Do as I say."

Wordlessly, the man followed the skull out. Sherlock stood there for a moment before he rushed to Mrs. Hudson's flat. There would be food there and if the man couldn't eat any of it, well, he could always make a quick trip to Common London and back.

The whistling interrupted his thoughts. Sherlock froze, his arms full of foodstuff when he recognized the tune and associated it with the person who was contacting him. Mycroft.

Ignore it, he said to himself. But the paper seemed to have read his thoughts. The parchment slid out of his pocket and unfolded itself before him. Sherlock backed away, enough to be able to read what was written on it.

_You are in big trouble Sherlock Holmes. Return your recent find to where it came from this instance –MH_

Sherlock scowled. Damn him. Lestrade had been handing him too many cases for him to pay attention to 221B. Mycroft had no doubt learned that his mind had been elsewhere and had taken the opportunity to bug Sherlock's flat for the nineteenth time that year.

Balancing the food in one arm, he reached out and stroked the parchment. Mycroft's words faded and were replaced by Sherlock's message.

_I will not do as you say –SH_

There was a pause. Sherlock's message stayed there for exactly ten seconds before it was wiped away. The black ink Mycroft had used was now replaced with a bleeding red that dripped off the paper and onto the floor.

_I'm going to make sure you do –MH_

* * *

_My name is John Hamish Watson. I was a former army doctor. I have a sister named Harriet and I live in London. My mother just died._

Fuck. His hand slipped off the picture, smearing the d so that the letters blurred together. The pen he'd found dropped on the floor, falling in the puddle of strange shampoos he'd created when he dropped the bottles. John banged the back of his head on the wall behind him. "Shit," he whispered. The swear words calmed him. It was something he had learned in the army, when they were running away from the enemies. Shit, fuck, bitch, arse, wanker. They would say them under their breaths like it was a prayer then shout them at the top of their lungs when victory arrived.

His mother was dead, he was in god-knows-where, and he had almost forgotten about his family. There was something about this place that wiped away his memory. He was glad that he kept his picture with him at all times. The edges were burned and it was creased slightly but other than that it was fine. John had stared at his young, happy face for a few beats before he grabbed the pen from the clutter on the bathroom counter and began to write on the back of it frantically. He had to remember who he was. He had to get back.

There was a knocking on the door again. The thumps that followed each knock told him it was Logos calling him, not that strange man Sherlock Holmes. He had been in the bathroom for nearly an hour. He'd spent the first ten minutes looking around him, wondering what had just happened, had spent the next five figuring out what knobs where to be turned (there were so many of them), the next thirty soaking in the tub, and then the rest of the time panicking and wondering how he was to get out of here. Defending himself from that Sherlock bloke wouldn't be easy. John didn't want to admit it but he was absolutely frightened of the guy. He wasn't normal for one thing—what kind of person had skin as pale as his?—and even though he was skinny and looked undernourished he seemed to possess some unearthly strength. One look at those colorless eyes and John knew that this man could kill him without even lifting a finger.

Everything was seriously messed up.

He stood there for a while until the knocking became more insistent. John bit his lip. There was no use hiding in the bathroom. You're a soldier, he reminded himself. You can handle this.

He quickly dressed in the clothes that had been laid out for him which consisted of a loose shirt and black trousers. John did not know what to do with his dirty clothes but he didn't have the heart to throw them away. In the end, he folded them and placed them on the counter.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair when he came back. An array of food was laid out on the coffee table. But as tempting as they were, John's attention had been captured by another man. This one was standing at Sherlock's side. He was tall and round-faced, dressed in a grey suit that John knew was expensive with just one glance. A black umbrella hung at the crook of his elbow which did not at all seem out of place in his possession. The man was smiling, Sherlock was not. In fact he seemed to be seething.

"Mycroft Holmes," the man introduced. "Sherlock's older brother."

"The bane of my existence," Sherlock corrected.

Mycroft ignored him. Instead he offered his hand to John who hesitantly took it. Mycroft's handshake was gentle but firm, a sign that he was making John comfortable but still showing him that he was in charge.

"And you are?"

"John Watson."

'Right, John. Pleasure to meet you." He smiled again. The smile wasn't entirely pleasant and John could sense a warning there. "I'm afraid our meeting will be short however. My brother has made a mistake and he will take you home this instance."

One of the small beakers at the table burst, scattering glass and a vibrant orange liquid that seemed to be acid. Mycroft clicked his tongue when the toe of his shoe began to hiss. Sherlock smiled.


	3. A Proper(?) Welcome

**Disclaimer: Not mine, blah, blah, Sherlock belongs to BBC and Moffat, yadda yadda yadda**

**Notes: A long chapter with disappointments, explanations, Lestrade, and (hihi) a whole lot of hand-holding (though it might not be what you had in mind)**

* * *

**Chapter Three: A Proper(?) Welcome  
**

Denying everything wasn't going to work so John did everything that Sherlock and his brother asked. They waited until he had fed himself (then threw up twice for eating much more than what his body was accustomed to) before Sherlock leaped out of his chair and was on him, placing strange things around his limbs. "Talismans," Sherlock explained when John asked. He pulled back the sleeve of his coat. Around his pale forearm were different kinds of bracelets. Most consisted of large beads joined together with thick pieces of brown strings. There was a lot going on in Sherlock's arms. Not only were there bracelets, there were markings as well, created by what he assumed was paint (though the marks did look suspiciously like dried blood). "They help ward off Moriarty's pets. Most of them are temporary and I have no idea how they'll react to a Common. Your scent is rather strong. I'm putting more on you than what is considered necessary to avoid the risk. You want to go back in one piece, of course."

John, not knowing what Moriarty's pets were like didn't object when Sherlock swiped a foul-smelling concoction on his nape.

They took Mycroft's car, a sleek black vehicle that John had seen political leaders use. He marveled at the plush exterior and the curious buttons at the sides, then tried to peer outside. It was impossible, however. Not only were the windows tinted, they were also moving at an alarming speed. The world was a blur and if Mycroft hadn't pulled him away and told him to sit still, he would have gotten sick just by looking at it. "Why are we moving so fast, anyway?" he asked the man across.

"We're racing against time. New curfew, am I correct?"

"You know that better than I do," Sherlock muttered. He was sitting next to John, slouching so that John couldn't see his face. "You approved it yourself."

"Someone has to."

The ride didn't take long. It seemed as if only ten minutes had passed before the doors were opening and Mycroft was ushering them outside. "This is where I leave you, Mr. Watson," he said, "I'm afraid I cannot follow. Only my brother has access to these grounds."

To Sherlock he said, "Give him a gun."

The door slammed shut before Sherlock could reply. Hands shoved in his pockets, his fingers brushing against the edge of his picture, John waited until Sherlock finally stopped glaring at the retreating car. "Wanker," John heard him hiss.

"This is yours," Sherlock said as he tossed him a revolver. John caught it deftly with his left hand. The gun felt a little bit too light to be loaded and instead of feeling cold, it felt warm, like John had someone's hand wrapped in his own. It seemed to hum in time with his pulse. It seemed alive and one look at Sherlock told him that in some way, it was.

"How about you?" John asked. He weighed the gun in his hand. It felt familiar even though John had never handled guns as small as this one. In the army, they used rifles. Sherlock didn't have a gun on him. "What do you use?"

"This." He tapped the side of his head.

The undertone was 'obviously'.

Quietly, they walked side-by-side down the narrow alleyway. John had been to a hundred alleyways before but there was something strangely familiar about this one. A memory was coming to him but he couldn't touch it. Frustrated, he tightened his grip around the gun and walked faster, willing it to come to mind.

"You're experiencing déjà vu." John whipped his head to look at Sherlock who staring straight ahead. "That's because you're in a link. Its real existence is in Common London. This is one of the entrances to your world. Others see and feel a brick wall but you and I see a decrepit alleyway. When we reach the end of this, we will emerge in your place."

"Will it take long?"

"Trust your senses, John."

Trust your senses. John was good at spotting things from far away but they were almost covered in darkness and it didn't look as if there would be light anytime soon. It was deadly quiet save for the sound of their footsteps and the rustling of Sherlock's coat, and touching the walls didn't seem to be a good option. Everything about this place seemed alive. He settled for his sense of smell and found that, even though the air was steadily getting colder, it was still as strong as before.

For a moment, he panicked and thought that maybe Sherlock had tricked him. But minutes later he could smell it. London. His London. Smoke and dirt and old sweat. He looked at Sherlock. John could just make out the disgusted expression on his face. Sherlock did keep saying how he reeked of his London. Perhaps his sense of smell was stronger than a dog's. If that was the case, he was probably going ballistic with the bad odors.

And finally, finally, he saw light at the end of the passage. "Come on!" he said, giddily, running forward despite Sherlock's protests. He stepped out and stopped at the pavement. It was early morning here. He could smell and practically taste the ash. It was a respite from the herbal sweetness that surrounded Sherlock's place. This was familiar. It wasn't home, not exactly, but at least he knew what to expect.

Sherlock was standing at the mouth of the alley, staring at him. For a moment, John felt a pang of guilt. Sherlock had saved him after all. He owed him his life and here he was leaving Sherlock without repaying him.

"Can't you stay?" he found himself saying. He kidnapped you, you idiot. But there was something about Sherlock that was familiar, as if John was talking to someone he had known in his childhood. It was strange and stupid. Sherlock was undoubtedly dangerous and literally out of this world. But he was reluctant to let the other man out of his sight.

Sherlock shook his head. "They can't see me, John."

"I can."

'You're different." His tone was almost accusing, as if he hated John for being available for kidnapping. He sounded like a child and John found himself thinking of Harry.

Harry. That was right. He had other priorities. His mother for instance.

"Well…come by if you can…" he said. Sherlock snorted. "Here's your gun back."

John reached it out between them. Sherlock sighed then made to snatch it out of his hands. His fingers barely brushed the barrel when all of a sudden, a group of children playing tag ran between them.

No, not between them. John's eyes widened and he dropped the gun. Sherlock caught it before it landed on the pavement, his eyes softening when he saw the shock in John's. There was no mistaking it. The children had gone through them.

"Ah," Sherlock said. "This may be a problem—what are you doing?"

This wasn't happening. This was all some sort of trick. The thoughts jumbled in John's mind as he ran to one of the people walking by. "Miss?" he called loudly. She walked ahead, paying no attention to him. John's heart was hammering as he caught up to her. His hand shot out to grab her arm. But he never touched her. It was like trying to grab air. Shaking, John turned his hand and stared hard at his palm. It looked solid and real but…there was something wrong with the edges. His hand looked a little blurred when it came to his fingertips.

"What is this?" Sherlock blinked. John focused on him and saw that Sherlock looked a little fuzzy as well. "Sherlock?"

"Your physical shell can't travel back to your world. You're a ghost here, like me. You've somehow become tied to our London."

"FIX IT!"

It was a roar, the kind of voice he used to shape up slackers in his platoon. But Sherlock didn't even flinch, much less the people going by. When Sherlock said nothing, John stepped forward and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat. His hands were shaking but he made them stop by tightening his grip on Sherlock until his knuckles blanched. "Fix it," he repeated, his voice now steady.

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't."

"You knew this was going to happen! Damn it, do something about it!"

Those colorless eyes narrowed at him, a signal that John should back away. He didn't. "I saved your life. You should be thankful."

"I'd really rather die than live in a strange place with freaks!"

The words were harsh but as Sherlock hadn't reacted to anything he'd said, John had assumed that he just wasn't capable of feelings. But this time Sherlock flinched visibly and though it didn't show in his eyes, that small gesture told John that he had hurt him in some way.

Slowly, his anger ebbed. He couldn't, for some reason, stay mad at Sherlock for a long time. "You're sincere, I think," he said, sighing as he let him go. "Sorry."

"It's fine." If it wasn't, John couldn't tell because Sherlock was distant once more. He straightened his coat. "I need to take you back. You can't stay here like that and we have to get back now as it's already past curfew."

"My sister…I need to see her. And my mother as well."

He needed to make sure she was alright. Was Harry looking for him? Was his mother really dead? The questions buzzed in his head but he had no answers to feed them.

"We can't, John. We have to go back."

When John didn't move, Sherlock grabbed his shoulder and said, "I'll figure out a way. You have my word."

_Ok._ The word was unspoken but it went without saying. With one last look at London, John turned on his heel and followed Sherlock back in the darkness.

He walked back dejectedly, keeping his hands clenched at his sides. He couldn't shake off the feeling of seeing how unreal he looked in his world. Looking at his hands had been evidence enough. He didn't belong there. At least, for now.

"Your gun," Sherlock told him. How long had they been gone? It was startlingly dark now and the darkness felt unnatural. John's eyes weren't adjusting. Briefly, he wondered how much his pupils had dilated to try and adjust. The world was ink-black, but at least he could still place where Sherlock was. He was at his right, close but not close enough to touch. The gun was handed back to him. Cold fingers brushed against his skin, the touch almost reassuring.

"What happens after curfew?" he asked when they had walked for some time. The distance seemed greater now. John's legs were beginning to cramp and despite the cold air, sweat was beginning to collect under his shirt. Sherlock on the other hand didn't seem to be getting tired. His breathing was even and he walked steadily. He paused (John couldn't see anything yet but he somehow knew that Sherlock had stopped walking) and suddenly grabbed John's right hand. His skin was cold, not uncomfortably so, but it felt like he was touching a corpse. It was his grip that was uncomfortable. John had the impression Sherlock was trying to break his fingers or dislocate his shoulder when all of a sudden, he pulled them down so that they were crouching.

Sherlock released his hand but clamped it at once over his mouth. "When the clock strikes, the game begins," Sherlock said, his voice barely above a whisper. John shuddered.

"Be absolutely still and do not let go of your gun," Sherlock commanded, releasing him completely. John could sense him getting up. There was a rustle and John felt something warm and soft cloak him. Sherlock's coat, he thought. It smelled strange, not unpleasant, but the scent was intangible. Sherlock was moving about, pulling his arms in the sleeves and fastening it around him. "This will mask your scent. Stay here and make no noise. I'm going after it."

The 'it' made its presence shortly after John sensed Sherlock pull away. He couldn't see it, couldn't place it's exact location either, but he could absolutely smell it. Whatever it was, it stank of death and decay. John squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself not to gag or go into a panic attack. He had seen dead bodies before, had smelled them surely, but they were always fresh and bloodied or burned to a crisp. This smell talked of maggots eating away your insides and your flesh, now greyish-green with rot, sliding of your bones. John gulped and gripped the gun harder.

Sherlock was moving. He wasn't too far. John could sense him running, sneaking up at the creature, muttering something under his breath. There was the unmistakable sound of beads clicking against each other, the screech of something being rubbed on the pavement (chalk?), and a faint hissing that John knew certainly wasn't coming from Sherlock. The hissing was gradually getting louder until it became a strangled scream that turned John's guts to ice. Sherlock was still moving about. What was he doing?

Don't move. Sherlock needn't have told him that. He was frozen to the spot, his exhaustion forgotten as adrenaline coursed through his veins. Cold sweat slid down the side of his face when he heard a soft wail. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Even though he couldn't see anything, John was thankful for the darkness. He would lose his mind if he saw it in broad daylight.

What was Sherlock doing now? He had stopped walking but John could hear him talking quickly. Where was the creature? Was Sherlock facing it?

And then John heard a grunt and the unmistakable thud of a body falling on the ground. Sherlock had fallen! John leaped up, then realizing his mistake, rounded his gun to where the smell was coming from. It seemed to be everywhere and if the thing hadn't made a sound, it definitely would have made its way to John Watson.

He relied on his instincts and pulled the trigger.

There was a feeling of getting too near a fire and the scent intensified, but that was before the bullet passed and the thing resolved to loud shrieks. John stumbled backwards from the force of it. He heard something crack but John paid no mind to it. He stood up and ran to where Sherlock was, paying no mind to the sound of broken glass under his feet.

"You okay?" he asked. Sherlock seemed to be alright but his breathing was ragged. John reached out tentatively. His hand landed on Sherlock's forearm where the talismans were. There were only five left. That wasn't the only problem. Sherlock was also bleeding. John couldn't tell how bad it was in the dark but judging from how strong the scent of iron was, John assumed it was deep.

"We need to get you to the hospital! Er, do you have hospitals?"

"Good shot," Sherlock wheezed. "But you were an idiot to have moved in the first place. I was doing fine."

"The blood on your arm proves you wrong."

"It's just a scratch."

"Might be infected."

"You didn't look at it, did you? You might go insane if you do. Weaker minds do that."

John was too pumped with adrenaline to be offended. "I can't see a thing, actually."

There was a pause. John blindly tore the hem of the stupid shirt he was wearing and began to wrap it around the wound while he waited for Sherlock to reply. There was never one because as soon as he was finished tying what must be the world's ugliest makeshift bandage, light flooded them.

For a moment, all John could see was white. He closed his eyes but it did little to stop the effect of blinding him. "Lower it, you imbeciles," Sherlock was saying. Someone granted his request because the light was lowered, enough to let John see again. He quickly hid the gun in one of the many pockets of Sherlock's coat.

There were people standing before them, all of them dressed in what John thought were police uniforms. There was a man at the front, clearly the leader of the group. He was glaring at Sherlock furiously. Sherlock himself smiled back. He was sitting on the ground, his back to the wall and looking a little battered. They were outside the alley now and were at the front of what John guessed was a small shop. He assessed his surroundings before turning his attention back to Sherlock. There was blood on the corner of his lips and there was a nasty bruise on his jaw. John looked at his arm and saw that the blood was already soaking the makeshift bandage. Quickly, he resumed to tightening it around his arm.

"You didn't leave a message so I assume no one, save for us, was attacked this night?" Some men were beginning to assist Sherlock and John up. Hands batted his away so that the bandage fell once more and John caught sight of a long, but (hopefully) shallow scratch on Sherlock's bloodied skin. John followed the instructions of the men but Sherlock pushed them away and turned on the man who was still glaring at him. "This one's a failure. Killed by a _gunshot._ I told you Moriarty's becoming boring."

"We talked about this, Sherlock," the man hissed. "No going out during curfew. We can't risk anyone dying again."

"You can always risk me, Lestrade. I'm not an idiot to die in the hands of Moriarty. And didn't I just solve another case for you? I'll fill in the descriptions later. Not terribly hard to kill but absolutely fascinating to look at. You should have seen it when it was still alive. No, in fact, let's go the Yard right now. I'm bursting with energy. This night has been absolutely fun!"

"Fine!" The man, Lestrade, snapped. "I won't be able to sleep tonight, anyway. Might as well get this over with." His eyes moved from Sherlock to John who was currently being wrapped in a hideous orange blanket. John would have pulled it off were it not for the sudden calm he felt when it rested on his shoulders. "Who's that?"

"Colleague," Sherlock replied automatically. "He's coming along."

"I don't know him. You know why we don't take strangers in the Yard, remember? They might be Moriarty's pets in disguise. He makes one all the time and I'm sure you can't catalog every single one of them."

"Don't be an idiot, Lestrade!" Sherlock sighed, exasperated. He threw his arms up, nearly hitting the person dressing his wound in the face. "If he were why haven't I killed him yet? Is there even a brain in that head of yours?"

Without another word Sherlock walked away from Lestrade and the person assisting him. John smiled a little as he saw him approach, then frowned when the blanket was unceremoniously tugged from his shoulders and dropped to the ground. One of the people who had put it there sighed and bent to pick it up. "Come along, John," Sherlock told him. His hand found John's wrist this time. A thumb swiped over his pulse point almost curiously.

"We're going to the Yard."

* * *

It didn't take long for Greg's suspicion to grow. Colleague? Since when did _Sherlock_ get a colleague? The only being that could stand being with Sherlock long enough save for his family and dear Mrs. Hudson was his stupid pet skull. Greg remembered that night he had gone to Sherlock's flat to scold him for the umpteenth time, only to have that damnable skull clamp its jaws on his shin and not let go until Sherlock told it off. Greg had gone to work with a limp that day, and he had been forced to chase Sherlock down the streets of London as well. Given the chance, Greg would put his foot through that hated thing. Anything associated with Sherlock was trouble. Greg had a good reason to be wary of the stranger.

There was also his smell. Greg didn't have the talent to smell people like an _animal_, unlike Sherlock, but this man practically reeked of smoke and something else. Greg could not put a name to it but it was something that he smelled on Sherlock whenever he came back from whatever plane he was visiting. It wasn't a bad smell but from the expressions on his men's faces, Greg could tell they were getting wary as well. It was unfamiliar and unfamiliarity these days was more than a little troubling.

He had a hunch who and what the man was exactly, but it was only when they got to his office that he was proven right. The man's exact words were, "What kind of place is this?" Greg looked back just in time to see him staring around as Greg's office as the most wonderful thing in the world when it fact, it was pretty mundane by his standards. One look at Sherlock's face and Greg knew what he'd done.

The door slammed shut and the lock clicked in place. The stranger—his name was John—jumped back. Unfamiliar with everything, Greg thought. "Common London, correct?" he hissed at Sherlock who nodded.

So this was what a Common looked like. No one currently alive had ever seen one before except for Sherlock and Moriarty. The books Greg had read were correct in saying you couldn't tell what the difference between them and the Commons were at all. Physically, John looked ordinary. He could easily pass as one of them and never got noticed but for that strange smell.

"Does Mycroft know?"

"Of course he does. He bugged my flat again, the git."

Mycroft knew then. Knowing Sherlock's brother, Greg knew that he must have told Sherlock to bring the poor bloke back. Something obviously went wrong as John was still here.

"I thought they can't see you or touch you when you're there."

"John's different. He's special." Sherlock beamed at John who was currently watching the letter from Dimmock and the letter from Carter battle with each other. He looked like a lost child and Greg immediately felt sorry for him. The guy was probably confused and scared out of his wits. It also didn't help that the person to whisk him away from his world was a madman.

"When are you going to bring him back?"

"When I find a way, of course. It will take time as this has never happened before in histoy." They both stared at John whose attention was still on the letters flying about in the air. Grinning, Sherlock added, "This will be my biggest case yet."

"Sherlock, he's not a case." When Sherlock said nothing, Greg huffed and picked a folder from his desk. He tossed it to Sherlock then told him to write down what he saw. Thankfully, Sherlock didn't argue. Greg watched as he picked a pen from the desk and dropped himself on the sofa, the folder now spread open on his lap like a large white moth. John looked over his shoulder to watch Sherlock. Greg's eyes did not miss the concern in them when they fell on the now properly bandaged wound on Sherlock's arm.

_Don't feel sorry for him. He doesn't like that._

"Sherlock, do you mind if I—"

Apparently Sherlock didn't mind as he merely curled in on himself more so that his legs were now pressed against his chest, the folder sitting on his knees. Greg rolled his eyes then moved to John. The Common smiled at him nervously. This one's a brave man, he thought. He looked a little upset but given the circumstances Greg thought he really should be screaming his head off instead.

"Hello, John, I'm Greg Lestrade, the Detective Inspector around these parts." He sank in the chair opposite him. He was good at explaining things to people. It was part of his job. Sherlock solved the more difficult cases while he broke off the news to the families of the victims. Sherlock didn't and probably wouldn't ever know that watching those people burst into tears was just as hard as finding out who or what caused them. He probably couldn't feel sadness, anyway.

"How's it going so far? You seem pretty calm for someone who's been whisked away from home and battled with one of London's, er, problems. The officers here want to know what your secret is."

John smiled and inwardly, Greg did as well. Good. That was good. He had to keep him calm enough to talk properly. And he had a lot of talking to do. No doubt Mycroft and Sherlock hadn't explained much to him yet. The Holmes brothers weren't really known for their social skills. And seeing as people would panic if they found out what John was (or try to kill him because of his difference), it would have to be Greg who would do the talking. Mycroft would have to tell the damn authorities to double their pay because this was a lot on Greg's part.

"It's all pretty surreal," John said, "I tried going back but something went wrong. I couldn't touch anything and no one seemed to be able to hear me." He paused then bit his lip. Nervous? Sad? Greg made a mental note to have Sherlock teach him how to read faces better. "I just…I don't really have much of a choice, do I?"

"Sherlock brought you here, didn't he?"

"He did." Greg looked up to shoot a glare at Sherlock who paid no heed to it. "It was just as the bomb was falling…He…saved my life…"

Greg's eyebrows shot up. Now that was different. Sherlock didn't save lives. Well, technically he did because he dealt with Moriarty's gifts and his psychopath followers, but his purpose was to have fun, not to become a hero. But then again, maybe he'd only saved John because he was interesting to him. Commons didn't know of their existence and Sherlock did say he walked like a ghost among them. How often did you see one who could see _and _touch you? No one since John Watson apparently.

"Sherlock says you're a great shot. Where'd that come from?"

"I'm a former army doctor."

"I was able to deduce that!" Sherlock piped in without looking up. He was still writing frantically.

"Yes, very clever of you, Sherlock." He turned back to John who was looking at him expectantly. "Now I'm in charge of keeping things calm here and well, with your arrival and that never-ending Moriarty case, I'm going to have to drink more coffee than usual. I'm not opposed to having you stay here because like you said, you don't have a choice. I just have one problem and that's your smell. It's not that you smell bad, just different. Noticeably different. It will make people panic."

"Don't worry about his smell, Lestrade." Sherlock closed the folder then tossed it to Greg. "A few more days here and it will fade eventually like how it does with me. And Mrs. Hudson's cooking can help that as well."

"Wait—He's staying with you? Sherlock, I don't think that's a very good idea."

"Why not? I found him and I know him better than you lot. He's already killed for me anyway so moving in with me won't be a problem. Now if you excuse me I have to feed off your staff. I'm feeling a little famished."

"Sherlock, do not anger them—"

Too late. The door opened and Sherlock stepped outside leaving Greg with John. With a flick of his hand, the door closed once more. Greg smiled tiredly at the look of amazement in John's face.

"What does he mean by…'feed off the staff'?" John asked.

"Ah. You want me to explain the enigma that is Sherlock bloody Holmes, don't you?"

"As it seems I have to live with him for a while, I kind of want to know what I'm getting myself into."

"Gotten yourself into," Greg corrected. He stifled a yawn. He was exhausted but there was work to be done. "Well, the answer to your question is quite easy but leads to more questions. Sherlock can eat normal food like you and me but it doesn't give him the energy he needs to run about. He feeds off emotions. You're shocked, right? It's uncommon even here. Well, he can taste your emotions, can sense what you're feeling. I don't know how emotions taste, exactly, but he did say that once, he accidentally ingested Anderson's anger and he said it was the most disgusting thing in the world. Though that is biased considering how much Sherlock hates Anderson.

"Now why does he eat emotions? He wasn't born this way. It began when he was seven-years-old and he traded his heart for a key with Moriarty."

John's eyes were wide. "He doesn't have a heart? That's impossible!"

Greg winced inwardly. Right, he said to himself. John wasn't stupid. He was just unaccustomed to their ways.

"In your world, maybe. In here it's unusual and very unacceptable, but it is possible to go on living without a heart. Now let me explain the planes to you. There are nine in existence and a long time ago before the era we call the Separation, everything coexisted in one. But people wanted order so they split it up in nine. There are few people who are gifted and they can walk like ghosts in two planes, not considering the eighth which is where we are right now. We call this the Sight. The aristocrats, the ones from very old families anyway, can sometimes see in three. Sherlock and his brother Mycroft are unusual since they can see in five. Well, Mycroft anyway. Sherlock was seven when he went to see Moriarty. He wanted to surpass his brother, you see, and he wanted to do anything just to prove he was greater than him. The key we talk about is the key to your London, Common London, which so few people in history have been able to walk through. The people who have been able to walk through it say that it's the most interesting because of how much it has in common with our world. In this lifetime, only Moriarty could do it but he passed this on to Sherlock which made Moriarty blind to your world. Are you following me?"

John nodded.

"You're wondering who and what Moriarty is, of course. Moriarty is known as The Spider, the only person who can see in eight planes. There are nine in existence, correct? Moriarty can only see in eight because he was born blind to this world where his physical shell is. Those who still practice old magic—Sherlock, for example—kept him in the town of Reichenbach in a pitch-black room. They were adamant not to let Moriarty open his eyes in this world because who knew what those unexplored planes were. He was just too unpredictable. People consulted Moriarty because he could interpret dreams. Only aristocrats could go and on his seventh birthday, Sherlock requested it. Something went wrong, though, because a week after the Trade, Moriarty was suddenly loose and causing havoc by pulling out things from those unexplored planes and putting them in this world. He killed almost everyone in Reichenbach then moved in Baskerville, the abandoned town where all those _things _pop up."

John was quiet for a while. Greg got up and made them coffee. He handed one to John who accepted it gratefully. "Was it Sherlock who caused it then?" he asked when he'd taken a sip. "Was he responsible for Moriarty? I mean he did the…the trade thing with him and this Moriarty guy began causing trouble after it. Was it him?"

"No, he was only seven. How could he possibly have done it?" The words were said firmly despite the old doubts clouding Lestrade's thoughts. He shook his head to clear it. He had known the Holmes brother's practically his whole life and while Sherlock had been deemed mad from the start, he wasn't evil or remotely stupid. And he was only seven-years-old when it all happened. A kid couldn't do that.

But then, Moriarty was only six when he had his first kill.

"The reason why I'm worried about you staying with him isn't because I think he'll kill you. No, no, he _won't _do that!" He waved his hands in front of him as if that could wipe away the shock in John's face. "He just does his experiments a lot. He likes mixing magic and science far too much for our liking, and those are two things that shouldn't always be combined. Things tend to explode in his home. Not too much to cause damage but I doubt you'll get enough rest with all that noise. Also, Sherlock doesn't sleep. At all. I think it comes with not having a heart. I mean, he can sleep but he chooses not to because he says it's 'irrelevant'. He doesn't get exhausted unless he's terribly injured or he's used too much magic which are the only times you'll see him keep those creepy eyes to himself."

To Greg's delight, John chuckled a little. "So I guess those 'creepy' eyes aren't normal here, either?"

"They're acceptable but just strange. Most Holmeses have it. They're one of the very old families here which is why Sherlock and Mycroft were brought up learning enchantments. Very few people still teach them since Moriarty killed the masters in Reichenbach."

John shuddered at the name. _He's learning to fear him as well. Good. Maybe that will keep him alive long enough to get him back where he belongs._

"I think that's enough for one night." Greg drained the rest of his coffee in one gulp. It didn't burn too much anymore. He'd gotten used to scalding his throat thanks not only to Moriarty but to Sherlock as well. "Any more and you'll overload."

"You're right, I guess. It's still confusing."

'It's just the beginning, mind you. Sherlock is an endless bout of confusing."

John smiled. "You sound quite fond of him."

Greg stopped at that. Was he fond of Sherlock? Sure the man was annoying and he insulted Greg every time they saw each other. But he really had known him his whole life. Greg had practically grown up in the Holmes' estate with Mycroft and when Sherlock was born, Greg had been at his mother's bedside, peering in the bundle in Violet Holmes' arms with Mycroft. He played Big Brother to him in the parts where Mycroft wasn't good at (all of the parts consisting emotions) and he had offered him a job when Sherlock had been exploring far too many planes far too long for their liking.

He answered John with a shrug. "Sherlock Holmes is a great man."

John stared at him, waiting.

"And I think one day, if we're lucky, he'll be a good one."

* * *

Sherlock bounded down the stairs with a newfound energy. He had made three people sob because he had revealed their secrets right in front of their colleagues. Sherlock didn't even consider them secrets. One of his victims, a young woman named Annabel (or was it Bethany?) had obviously been sleeping with her mother's boyfriend for months. He had been able to tell because whenever she returned from 'lunch with her family' she never failed to come back with bite marks peppering her throat. Her cheeks were always red because of contact with the old man's grisly beard and she always smelled of his cologne. Her helplessness had been an absolutely wonderful thing to ingest. It was tangy with just the right amount of bitterness to have his toes curl in the confines of his shoes. He regretted that he had eaten that one first, though, as the other two weren't as flavorful. Still, it had been a good meal.

His good mood vanished when he entered Lestrade's office. John and Lestrade were talking in hushed voices. Their heads were close together and Lestrade had one hand on the arm of John's chair.

A fierce possessiveness took over him. John was his find. John was his and damn the world if Lestrade took him away from Sherlock! He glared at the two of them. One of the letters overhead dropped mid-flight and landed on Lestrade's head, jerking him away from John. "Sherlock," he complained while he flattened the letter and did his best to revive it. Sherlock smiled smugly then moved to John.

"We're going home."

"Really, Sherlock?" It was Lestrade. "You should spend the night here, or at least until curfew's over. For John's sake, not yours, of course. There are still some out there. My team wasn't able to replace all the wards that that new one broke when it entered so some probably slipped inside the boundaries."

"You forget, Lestrade, that I made back-ups for times like this. It didn't get to kill me at once because of some of the talismans around my arm, three of which are used to ward off ghouls. It entered in a weakened state which is why John here was able to kill it with just one bullet. The back-ups are even stronger than the first round. Nothing's going to cross the boundaries for a while. And the ones that have entered can't escape so you can resume getting rid of the rest of its companions."

"But still. Sherlock, listen to me." Lestrade had walked forward and made to grab Sherlock's arm but instead he found John's. Sherlock felt a growl build inside him. Why was he being this possessive? Was it because John could be the answer to all of those researches about Common London? That could be the only answer. Because apart from being the only one that could see and touch him, John's other traits were rather dull. Sherlock tried to reason with himself but his rationality wasn't up to par this day. He wrenched John away from Lestrade, nearly hurling the smaller man to the ground.

Or was it because John was still wearing his coat and Lestrade had touched it? He certainly didn't like it when people pawed his precious coat. The only ones who could touch him when he had it on were Mrs. Hudson and his mother. But then why did he let John borrow it in the first place? To protect him? That was his initiative when he was dealing with that thing (he still needed to come up with the name) but then why hadn't he torn it off John as soon as they were safe?

_Confusing. Need more data._

"I'll use a transportation circle if that will help calm you down, _Detective Inspector_."

Lestrade's jaw went slack. "You'll be out of it all day!"

"Surely you can manage without me for a few hours."

"You'll be out of it for fifteen!"

"It's my time not yours and I can use it any way I want." He crossed his arms and looked Lestrade down. After a minute, Lestrade swore then muttered 'fine'. He swore again when Sherlock got on his hands and knees and procured a soft red chalk from his pocket. "I told you no enchantments in my office!" Lestrade shrieked.

"Deleted it. And where do you expect I do it? In front of Anderson? Even the chalk will hide just to get away from his stupidity."

Lestrade gave up trying to kick him out. Sherlock worked steadily, drawing the symbols as accurately as possible. He had never made a mistake before but he hadn't done this in quite a long time. Others had made mistakes and parts of them had ended up in other planes, never to be found again. Sherlock had in fact been exploring in the Dream plane when he came across someone's floating right foot. When he came back to London, he found out that a group of teenagers had tried copying things from an old spellbook, and had ended up in the hospital with various missing limbs.

Magic and science really weren't for idiots.

"Amazing," John breathed when he was done. "It looks beautiful."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Beautiful? Well, the circle was aesthetically pleasing. But beautiful wasn't a fitting word for advanced enchantments like this one.

"Step in," he commanded. John didn't really have a choice as Sherlock had pulled him in.

"Can you, er, lessen your grip?"

"No." John might get lost if Sherlock didn't hold him properly. He wondered whether or not transporting would tire John out. Maybe not. He and Mycroft had travelled together before (and hopefully it would be the last time) with Mycroft channeling the circle. His brother had been the only affected by it and he had slept for quite a long time, leaving Sherlock to his devices. Maybe John wouldn't feel drained.

Only one way to find out.

"Don't bother messaging me," he told Lestrade who merely grumbled. To John, he said, "Don't panic. You'll have a bit of trouble breathing but that will only last for a few seconds. Do not, under any circumstances, let go of my hand. Understand?"

John bit his lip then nodded.

"Good." He looked down. The circle was beginning to glow. It was ready.

"_Abeo._"

The world shimmered around them before turning black. The loss of senses, he recalled. One by one, they would slowly return. Touch was first and Sherlock was thankful for that. He could still feel John's rather sweaty hand in his. Touch, taste, smell, then sight. The black faded and the living room slowly came into focus. Sherlock's ears began to ring. A few seconds later, he could hear properly and the first sound his mind registered was the gasp from John as he filled his lungs with air.

"Never," John was saying. "Never again. Please. That was horrible!"

"Hmm…" He could feel his energy fading now. He was glad to have fed before doing this because if he hadn't, he wouldn't have been capable to covering the distance to the couch where he collapsed. Sherlock closed his eyes.

"You okay?" John asked and there was an unmistakable note of worry in his voice. And over his head. But as John couldn't provide a good meal, Sherlock didn't bother wondering how it tasted and why he couldn't feed off John's feelings.

"Drained," he answered without opening his eyes. He hated this. This was why he hated transportation circles in the first place. They used up too much energy, energy which he could use to do more important things.

"Walk about if you like but don't touch anything. If you're tired you can sleep in my room. Logos will guide you up there again. I'll make the necessary adjustments tomorrow as I use my room for experiments."

"Log—Oh, you again." John was moving, probably picking up Logos or avoiding it. The skull was rolling about and it paused to nudge Sherlock's hand. Sherlock grunted and brought his hand up and rested his arm over his eyes.

"I'll walk about. That okay?"

"Hmm…"

"Your, er, gun. I'll just place it—"

"Keep it." Talking was becoming a struggle now. His body was screaming at him to sleep.

Wariness. He could feel it cloaking John. "Aren't you worried I might kill you or something?"

Sherlock would have scoffed if he could. But his mind was beginning to shut down.

"No," he yawned. "You trust me."

Shock. Confusion. Understanding.

"Ok."

The last things his mind registered before he succumbed to sleep were a rustling sound and a feeling of warmth. John, it turned out, had draped his coat over him.

* * *

**A/N:** Long, long, long, this one is LOOOOOOOOONG. I still wonder how I can make these chapters shorter (sorry for spelling mistakes and grammatical errors because I have very little time to reread each chapter). As for the explanation to why Sherlock is that way if it's still confusing, there is a flashback chapter that will appear…whenever. As more ideas pop in my head, I realize that I didn't base this on Gaiman's "Neverwhere". Most of the ideas were taken from Spirited Away and Howl's Moving Castle because Hayao Miyazaki is cool that way.

Also decided to give each chapter a title so I can fit in ideas easily. It worked. A bit anyway.


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